I don't need an Eiffel Tower as my backdrop
nor picture painted perfection gracing a Louvre
romantic candlelit dinner elegance at a Casa Cruz
nor a breathtaking view of The Old Man at Storr . . .
to deliver all my heartfelt desire
radiant red, smoldering, a slow stoke
burning, for you, I am your fire
and you, in all your brilliance
are my flame
dancing in every minute breeze
seen and unseen
felt in every crevice of my being
spread in both dreams and reality
wild and free
sparks ignited in a heated destiny
Time is now . . .
pour out our stagnant waters
no more pushing up daisies from the past
rains, they come and they go
washing away distance
and here, into your beauty,
I continue to fall
Bicycle ride on Skye
We’re off on a bike ride, brother Mick and I,
From Portree to Staffin, on the Island of Skye.
Sandwich for lunch, by the old man of Storr,
A stop at Culnacnoc, but not sure what for.
Over the Bens, down through the Glens,
Making good speed on twists and the bends.
Towards Flodigarry, over dark Jurassic Hills,
Beauty of Balmaqueen, perfect place to chill.
On the road back home, village of Kilmuir,
Looking to the sky, where Eagles dare to soar.
Through Earlish and Eyre on our way home,
Teatime and shower ‘fore I write this poem.
We went on a bike ride, brother Mick and I,
From Portree to Staffin, on the Island of Skye.
On the Isle of Skye
Lives Old Man of Storr
A varied and impressive mountain
Featured in tall tales of men of yore
Beauty is all around him
But humble he remains
When one reaches his rim
Miles and miles of glory are attained
Upon his slopes, sheep
Love to skip and romp
Just the environment steep
For their daily tromp
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